


Not A Superhero

by kronette



Category: Lara Croft: Tomb Raider (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-14
Updated: 2011-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-17 03:59:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hillary's backstory on how he came to be employed by one Lady Croft.</p><p class="MsoNormal">He was <i>not</i> her Alfred. Bryce could be construed as Lara’s Q, but <i>he</i> was unequivocally, undeniably, <i>not</i> her Alfred.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not A Superhero

**Author's Note:**

> I like [Chris Barrie](http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0057368/). Chris played Hillary, the butler, in the _Tomb Raider_ movies. And now, damn it, I’m writing stories for him.

He was _not_ her Alfred.

Bryce could be construed as Lara’s Q, but _he_ was unequivocally, undeniably, _not_ her Alfred.

For one thing, he did a hell of a lot more than make tea. That was the butler in him, demanding order and propriety in Lara’s world of neither. He couldn’t even get her in a dress, for pity’s sake!

Besides, his tea-brewing abilities were the absolute last part of his CV that Lara had cared about. He was hardly a ‘butler’ type on paper, but after the army, he’d been lost. He’d joined up with the Army because he didn’t know what to do with his life, and upon his release, still didn’t know. He wasn’t one for drink, so that left ‘bum’ off his options list. He’d needed something to occupy him full-time, not just a 9-5 job, but something like the army that required his full attention. To his chagrin, he’d found himself at The International Butler School (A butler? _Him_?) and then begun employ at Buckland Manor. The work kept him busy round the clock, which was exactly what he’d been looking for.

Then Lady Croft had found him.

Of all things at Buckland Manor Hillary had to put up with, from polishing shoes to middle of the night calls for several fingers of Glenfiddich, burglary had never entered his thoughts. But that was what he’d no doubt walked in on, that summer’s night. Three men rifled through the wardrobe, bedside table and the bed, respectively. The room had just an hour ago been given to one Lady Croft, sole heir to Lord Richard Croft, and Hillary had been sent to see if she’d needed anything.

Apparently, she’d needed a better lock, as his gaze quickly assessed the thieves, took stock of visible weapons and anticipated that they had more hidden away.

“Beg pardon, but I believe you have the wrong room. This one has been given to Lady Croft,” he feigned ignorance. Best to keep the men off-guard until he could gauge their strength. Whatever they were doing in Lady Croft’s room, it was not charitable. “If you’ll be so kind as to follow me, I’ll be happy to direct you to your proper room.”

The man closest to Hillary raised a fist to backhand him. He caught it easily, twisted it down and brought up his knee to catch the man in the midsection. A chop to the back of his neck and the man was on the floor, dismissed as Hillary reviewed the other two. One had a knife; presumably they didn’t want to draw attention with gunfire.

That was fine with him.

The one to his right jumped first and he sidestepped neatly, using the man’s momentum to barrel him into the wood paneled wall. A rather expensive gilded frame landed on his head, but thankfully didn’t damage the painting within.

That left the one with the knife. Too late; the man was already on him when Hillary turned and he felt the blade sink into his side. Thankfully it was a short blade, only three inches, but he was sure it had done some damage. He slammed the heel of his palm up into his attacker’s nose, then jabbed at his throat. The knife jostled its way out as his attacker staggered back and Hillary felt a thick stream of blood soaking through his three layers of uniform. He struggled not to favor that side, but his attacker could see the bloodstain, and now the blood trickling onto the floor. It was worse than Hillary had feared; he needed to end this quickly and get help.

Biting his lip against the pain, he gave a roundhouse kick to the man’s head, sending him crashing into the wardrobe door. The door gave way on its hinges, nearly toppling the oak wardrobe as it landed on the sprawled man.

Hillary grunted as he pushed his hand onto his wound. It was immediately warm and sticky and he cursed under his breath. He couldn’t risk letting the guests see him in that state, but neither could he call an ambulance. What could he do?

The door behind him creaked and he whirled, prepared somewhat to fend off more attackers. The surprised look on the young lady’s face surely matched his own. “Lady Croft, I presume,” he said on a gasp of pain. “I’m terribly sorry about the mess.”

Her eyebrows shot up as she surveyed the room and the unconscious or moaning attackers. “You did this?” she’d asked, her voice sounding a touch impressed.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he apologized again, then bent over as his side spasmed painfully. “Ah!” he ground out through clenched teeth. It wouldn’t do to scare the girl. She had only just returned to England after word of her father’s death, and the ink on her inheritance was still fresh.

He jumped as firm, sure hands pulled his away and lifted up his jacket, vest and shirts to inspect the wound. “That will need stitches,” Lady Croft tutted. She looked up at him, eyes solemn and worried. “We need to get you to hospital.”

“Splendid,” he replied faintly. Now that the cloth was away from the wound he could feel how jagged it actually was, and how large. The damn bugger had opened him like a gutted fish. He shook his head. He’d been stupid to turn his back on the one with the weapon. Why did he think they would act honorably and have a go at him one at a time? They were thieves; thieves didn’t care about honor.

He startled as he felt pressure against his side; Lady Croft had removed her jacket and was pressing it against his wound. “My Lady, you shouldn’t have,” he chided.

“Shush.” She gave him a sharp, withering glare. “I’d say a life is more important than a frock, wouldn’t you?”

He couldn’t fault her logic, obviously, but it still rankled that this child had enough medical knowledge to help him. He frowned as he realized she’d been speaking and he’d missed a question. “Pardon?”

Lady Croft’s eyes narrowed. “I asked if there were another way out of here. A special entrance just for butlers, perhaps?”

He blinked. Of course; she realized he couldn’t walk down the grand staircase without drawing attention, and attention was the last thing either of them wanted. “To the left, down to the end of the hallway, then a right. Elevator to ensure prompt service no matter the time of day or night,” he recited with a wan smile.

He thought he caught the whisper of a smile on her lips before she tucked herself under his right arm and helped him down the hallway to her waiting car.

In hospital a week later, he mused what would happen to him. Granted, he’d stopped a burglary of one of the guests, but he’d also ruined a perfectly innocent Persian rug, at least one tapestry, the wood paneling, an antique wardrobe and his own uniform. Plus, the doctors were giving him weeks, not days, of recovery time. He wouldn’t be out of line to assume he was unemployed.

It was then that Lady Croft entered his room and propositioned him. “Mr. Hillary. I’d like to offer you a job at Croft Manor.”

“Lady Croft?” he queried with raised eyebrows.

She sighed and crossed her arms over what looked to be a sleek catsuit under a long, stylish jacket. What sort of Lady wears…that? he thought, distractedly. “Rule number one; you will not call me ‘Lady Croft’. I’m Lara.”

Granted, his butler training had been a mere eight weeks, but he’d been serving as butler to Lords and Ladies for over eight years. Addressing those by title was ingrained. “I don’t know that I can do that, my Lady,” he admitted quietly, then hastened with, “My – Lara. Ma’am.”

He winced, but she laughed; a low, throaty sound that was far beyond her years. “Hillary, I think we’ll get on just fine.” She patted his leg beneath the scratchy hospital blankets.

He stared at his hands as he toyed with the frayed edge of the sheet. “I appreciate the offer, my Lady,” he said fluidly, wrapped up in his thoughts, “but may I ask why?”

To his astonishment, she began reciting, “Nicolas Hillary, born 28th June, 1960. Enlisted in the army at age 16. Standard weapons training. Assigned to Warrenpoint, South Down on August 27, 1979, where 18 of his fellow soldiers were murdered. Wounded and released from service after three and a quarter years. 3rd Dan Aikido with a smattering of other martial arts training, though nothing higher than yellow belt. Graduated from The International Butler School in 1981; employed by Buckland Manor that same year. A week previous, dispatched three thieves in Lara Croft’s room at the Buckland Manor without a thought to his own safety, despite no prior relationship with Lara Croft, which was a brave and foolish thing to do. Currently recovering from surgery to repair muscle and tissue, and will likely be unemployed for quite some time while he recuperates, unless he takes the generous offer of the aforementioned Lara Croft. Did I miss anything?” she asked with a raised eyebrow, almost mocking him.

He’d never asked and she’d never offered, but he sometimes wondered if she’d ever contemplated anyone else for the position, or, if she’d created the position just to hire him on. He hadn’t known at the time, but she hadn’t just wanted someone to keep the manor running; she’d wanted someone whom she could trust to take care of themselves, in consideration of her dangerous lifestyle.

His quiet demeanor and quiet skills were what made him indispensable to Lara. No one ever suspected the unassuming butler, did they? Especially one who could accurately fire a Remington 870 while in their pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers.

All that aside, it didn’t mean he that liked being shot _at_ , especially by her. He was damn lucky she was distracted, or else his Kevlar vest would have been seriously tested. As it was, he’d done his best to keep the intruders occupied whilst waiting for Lara’s arrival.

Once they realized he couldn’t penetrate the bullet-proof glass that inadvertently protected them, they’d not worried about him. And that had pissed him off. Part of his duty to Lara was protecting the manor and he’d failed.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, once his pounding heart had settled back down to normal.

“What?” Lara was distracted as her eyes swept the glass-strewn floor, looking for clues, he suspected.

“I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to stop them,” he admitted quietly as he pulled the Kevlar vest over his head. It dangled in his right hand, while the left held the still-warm shotgun.

Lara sent him a sharp, penetrating glare. “You did exactly as you were trained to do. I haven’t called for an apology, have I?”

He may be ten years her senior, but she could make him feel like a seven year old being scolded for stealing biscuits out of the jar. “No, and I know you wouldn’t.”

“Because you have absolutely nothing to apologize for,” she voiced the unspoken sentence. Her gaze went back to the table that held only shards of glass and ruined electronics. “The man who did this, however, is going to be begging for forgiveness.”

Hillary didn’t doubt that. He was her butler, in a manner of speaking, but he was also a friend, sparring partner, mother, father and nursemaid, but right now, the mother was taking forefront.

He watched her transform from victim to perpetrator in the span of five seconds and anticipation twisted with resignation in his stomach. “Lara, please, don’t do anything…rash.” He swallowed as he recalled one of her previous ‘rash’ decisions. It had taken the better part of two months to restore the sitting room to its previous state. “There are still international laws on killing and torture. Local ones, too, I’m told.”

The smile she flashed him gave him no reassurance. It was cold and menacing. “I promise to leave the majority of them breathing.”

He knew what was coming next and sighed internally. “Where will you be jetting off to first?” he asked as he followed her up the stairs to her room. His mind was already cataloging the repairs needed to the manor ( _bullet-proof glass, skylight, floor buffer, monitors, computers, grated metal doors)_ but he left enough attention on her to get the destination and departure request.

She was off to pack and he was off to make arrangements for her flight. No, he was sure as hell not her _Alfred_ , he sniffed disdainfully. He was her _Hillary_.

The End


End file.
